Keeping secrets
by Clemzee
Summary: Sherlock is ten years old when he finds out his father is having an affair. Basically young!Sherlock, teenager!Mycroft, Mummy and family trouble.


**A/N: I'm not english speaking so forgive any remaining mistake.**

**Summary : Sherlock is ten years old when he finds out his father is having an affair.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock nor any of the characters.**

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><p><strong>Monday, 13th December.<strong>

_Mrs. Patmore contacted Mummy because of my behavior at school. She doesn't like that I'm smarter than her. And she always punishes me when I tell the others how stupid they are.  
>I don't understand why I can't tell them, it's only the truth and Mummy always tells me not to lie. Is it my fault that they're so stupid? If Mrs. Patmore doesn't want me to tell them then she should make them less dumb.<em>

Mum told me I had to stop being mean to the other kids or she would take my journal away. That's so unfair.

The bell had rung about five minutes ago and Sherlock was leaning on the wire fencing, waiting for his chauffeur to come and pick him up, as usual. Arms crossed over his chest, he was doing a spectacular job ignoring every students who passed by him.

He was too used to their staring and their whispering to still care. He had understood long ago that they only felt threatened because he was smarter than all of them. Besides, Sherlock had no interest whatsoever in talking and socializing. The less time he spent with other kids his age – or adults for that matter – the better.

He stuck his hands in his uniform pockets because he was beginning to stop feeling his fingers and he glanced around to see if his car had arrived.

Instead of finding the car, he saw someone familiar walking down the sidewalk across the street. He frowned when he noticed his father wasn't alone. A woman in high heels was walking close to him.

He couldn't see clearly enough from where he stood so he crossed the street – ignoring the shouts of several angry cab drivers apparently not altogether pleased with him throwing himself in the middle of the street – and followed his father from a reasonable distance.

Sherlock was an avid reader of detective and crime novels. So, _obviously_, he knew everything he should on how to act in this kind of situations. He also happened to watch a little more television than what was probably good for him so he had learnt what _not to do_ when trying to follow someone in the street. Especially when the one being followed knew who you were.

They stopped thirty seconds later and Sherlock hid behind a street lamp. He risked a quick glance in their direction, just long enough to manage to get a pretty good view of both of them.

The woman was in her early thirties, she was tall and especially so because of her heels. She was wearing a suit and had long blond hair. Sherlock had seen the way she smiled at his father and it reminded him of a common secretary character in a lame television soap.

He didn't like that.

Worst, he had also had time to notice his father wasn't wearing his wedding ring. Sherlock had always been observant and took particular care to notice every detail, even when they could seem insignificant at first. And he knew for a fact his father had his wedding ring on when he left for work today, like every day.

Sherlock waited a few seconds and turned back towards them to learn some more, but they were getting into a cab and he only just had time to turn his back on the road so he was sure his father wouldn't recognize him as they drove past him.

He sighed and finally spotted his car in front of his school. He waited a few seconds and crossed the street again.

**Tuesday, 14****th**** December.**

_I saw something really strange today. This could be nothing. I don't know enough to form an opinion. I'll see if Dad has his ring on when he comes home from work later. Maybe he lost it?_

_He had it on. I don't know what to think anymore._

Sherlock did nothing. At first.

He read his favorite _Poirot_ stories over and over again, trying desperately to find something in them that could be of any help.

He found nothing.

Life went on as if nothing had happened. Sherlock kept going to his private school every day and he talked even less to his father during dinner and if anybody noticed, nobody said anything about it.

The week after that, Sherlock left before his car arrived, crossing the road, expecting to see his father walk by any minute though he hoped he wouldn't.

He waited for a solid ten minutes, watching across the streets as he did so, to check his chauffeur wasn't leaving without him. He was about to give up and decide he had simply read too many novels when he caught a glimpse of his father about twenty feet away.

He was with the same woman. Sherlock felt his heart pound in his chest and he barely had time to hide his face behind someone when his father walked past him. He watched, helpless, as his father hailed a cab for the woman, his left hand on her hip.

He wasn't wearing his wedding ring today either.

For the few seconds it took for the realization to sink in, Sherlock felt the world stopped all around him. He couldn't move, he could only watch his father plant a quick kiss on the woman's lips before helping her in the cab and getting in himself.

When the world finally got back to a normal speed, Sherlock was feeling a bit dizzy. He didn't even bother to hide this time, he just followed the car with his eyes until it was out of sight.

He didn't move for about a minute. He couldn't. He didn't know what to do. He had read books and he had seen movies and series and he knew that what his father was doing was _wrong_. He didn't feel any respect towards his father so he wasn't scared of betraying him.

He was sure that if it had been any other person on the planet, he would never have hesitated, not one second.

But he couldn't think of how he was going to tell his mother.

Sherlock didn't care what others thought of him, he didn't care that people called him heartless or rude or even mean. He didn't care because he knew better than that. He wasn't a very warm person, he knew it, he based his actions on ireasoning/i. He didn't let other people tell him what to do, ever. He was the one to judge his own choices and until now, he had always known what to do.

This was different. Because if he didn't mind everyone calling him selfish and self-centered, he cared very much indeed about what his mother thought of him. She had always been the only one able to soften him a bit, the only one who understood him.

Who loved him no matter what.

And now, he was scared of making her hate him if he told her. For once, he wished he hadn't been so curious and had just let it go.

Eventually he crossed the road and got in the car in thoughtful silence.

**Tuesday 21****th**** December.**

_What should I do?..._

Sprawled on his bed, Sherlock started masticating his pencil. He was never at a loss for words when it came to writing in his journal but tonight, it seemed the inspiration didn't want to come. He sighed and started to doodle on the blank page.

_I should tell her._

He crossed it off and bit on his pencil some more.

_What if_

There was a knock on his door and then his father came into the room. Sherlock stood up straight immediately as if he was trying to communicate the determination he couldn't bring himself to feel, shooting him a frozen glare.

"Dinner is on."

Sherlock wanted nothing more than to tell him he wasn't hungry and stay locked away in his room but somehow that's not what came out.

"Dad,"

"Oh, you're talking to me now?" His dad replied, smirking.

Seeing how he was acting naturally made Sherlock feel sick. He felt his jaw clenching a bit but ignored it and got off his bed, standing perfectly straight once again. How did he dare act like he didn't betray his wife? Sherlock started to wonder for how long he had playing that little game and found he didn't actually want to know the answer to that.

"I saw you." He simply said, his tone cold as stone. His father was too used to it by now to really notice something was wrong.

"I'm sorry, what?" Mr. Holmes arched an eyebrow, intrigued, and crossed his arms on his chest.

"I said 'I saw you'. Today. And also last week. It wasn't very clever to come with her in front of my school."

He could feel his father's gaze intensified but he didn't look away. He didn't fear his father, Sherlock knew he was as clever as he was, if not more, and he didn't fear physical violence. He also believed strongly that respect wasn't something he _owed_ to his father simply because he imposed life on Sherlock ten years ago, it was something that must be earned. And his father had never done anything to gain that respect.

His father opened his mouth, looking angry as well as taken aback. He bit his lower lip and turned around to close his son's bedroom door. He took a few seconds, as if he was trying to measure the implications of what his son had just said to him. Sherlock remained silent.

When Mr. Holmes finally spoke, it was to say exactly what Sherlock had expected of him.

"You're not going to tell your mother, are you?"

Sherlock's hands turned into fists in his trousers pockets and his jaw started to hurt a bit. He could feel his anger towards his father grow even wider, but at least, there was no doubt left in his mind.

"What do you think?" Was his only answer.

He shot his father a last frozen glare and walked around him to get to the door. Mr. Holmes grabbed his arm to prevent him from leaving. He was no longer looking down at his son with surprise but more with controlled anger.

"You're only going to hurt her you know. You won't be doing her a favor."

Sherlock snorted and released his arm from his father's grip. "I'm just saving her some time."

At dinner, his father kept looking at him and Sherlock kept ignoring him. He had engaged in a staring competition with his plate but, so far, he wasn't sure he was winning.

His mind was made up and he wouldn't change it, but as the opportunities to tell his mother came, he realized it wasn't that easy to tell her after all. Once he told her the truth, he couldn't take it back.

After dinner his father got up and told Sherlock to follow him. His son finally allowed himself to look at him. "I haven't finished yet, I want desert."

The whole family – and the butler who happened to pass by at the same moment – stared at him for a few seconds. Sherlock never took desert; it was rare enough that he finished his plate.

He could see his mother's eyes on him but he didn't look away from his father. The tension was so thick in the room you could have cut it with a knife. His mother put her hand on Sherlock's, looking alternatively at her husband and her youngest son.

"I'll have desert too." Her voice was exactly the same tone as usual but there was no doubt in Sherlock's mind. She knew something was wrong.

Hell, she always knew everything when it came to her sons. Oddly enough Sherlock didn't find it as upsetting as he did when Mycroft was the one to know it all.

Mr. Holmes left the room and Mrs. Holmes asked Mycroft to do the same. He barely complained, proof that he also had felt something was wrong.

In the end they didn't even bother to bring desert.

"Sherlock, tell me what is going on."

Sherlock breathed heavily and he felt his mother's hand squeezing his slightly, as if she knew exactly how he felt.

"Promise me you won't be mad."

Mrs. Holmes let out a surprised sigh. "Of course."

Sherlock took away his hand and joined them both on his knees. He looked straight in front of him, to the door, cautiously avoiding his mother's gaze. He couldn't bear to look his mother in the eye while telling her. It was enough to know how he was going to hurt her; he didn't need to see it.

His voice was steady and calm as he told her exactly what happened. He didn't omit any detail, even if it could have seemed insensitive of him. He knew his own mother, she was sensible, just like her two sons, and he knew it was important that she knew the whole truth.

He felt her move slightly on her chair when he told her about the kiss and pretended not to notice.

"Sherlock... Are you sure that's what you saw?"

For an unknown reason Sherlock felt suddenly pissed off. It shouldn't have surprised him that his mother didn't want to believe it. He knew that. He just couldn't help thinking she didn't trust him, which was stupid.

He just couldn't help it.

"Yes." His tone was cold as stone and for a moment he realized how heartless he could sound. He finally looked up at his mother and tried to restrain the guilt he could start to feel rising up in him.

Mrs. Holmes was many things. She was a strong, independent and active woman. She was caring in her own way, she got along with her two sons in a fashion any other mother would have found slightly odd. She never took 'no' for an answer and she was able to overcome everything that was thrown at her.

She was intelligent. More so than Sherlock would ever be, the little boy was convinced of this.

What she wasn't, was overemotional and that easily hurt.

And yet, Sherlock could clearly see the pain on her face and it broke his heart, just a bit. He opened his mouth, starting to wonder if he could have done anything to make it up to her, to fix it.

He felt useless.

They spent a few minutes in complete silence. Sherlock contemplated just getting up and go, but he didn't. He felt like his mother wasn't finished.

He eventually let out a sigh and his mother turned to him. "Thank you for telling me, Sherlock. I appreciate your honesty."

She nodded slightly and Sherlock finally got up and left. He knew he was being kinder telling her now instead of letting her live a lie even longer than she had already lived it.

Somehow though, he didn't feel relieved.

Later that night there was another knock on Sherlock's bedroom door.

"Mycroft, just go away already."

He heard footsteps in the corridor and his brother's bedroom's door closing.

He was laid down on his bed when he heard the sound of his father's car start. He hadn't heard any screaming since he left the dining room and he wondered if it was a good sign or not.

But then again, his mother was more the controlled than screaming type.

His father left. Just like that. Sherlock couldn't bring himself to feel sorry about it. He never really liked his father and the feeling had always been undoubtedly reciprocated.

He knew they were better off without him, but he felt like he was the only one in the Holmes residence to feel that way.

Mrs. Holmes did everything she could to acclimate to their new life rhythm. Really, she never showed any clear sign of sadness or even exhaustion.

It was just sometimes when she thought her sons weren't looking, she sighed and her gaze became a little blurry, like if she wasn't focusing on her surroundings. Or she would just seem lost in her thoughts longer than usual.

It was nothing, Sherlock kept telling himself. She just needed time to adjust, it was perfectly natural.

**Thurdsay, 23th December.**

_Mummy insisted on celebrating Christmas anyway. I hoped, considering the __**circumstances**__ as they all call it, that I wouldn't have to endure that._

_I hate everything about Christmas. It's stupid. I stopped believing in Santa years ago. In fact I'm not sure I was ever stupid enough to believe in him at all._

_I hate the snow, the poisonous gleefulness all around. I hate how people act like it's the most wonderful time of the year, as if everything just went away for a few days. It only makes the return to their pathetic lives harder. Fools._

_I pity them in a way._

"Sherlock, open the door please." It was Mycroft's much too familiar voice across the door.

"No."

"Stop acting like a child."

Sherlock snorted and threw one of his shoes against the closed door. "iYou're/i acting like a child."

"I'm not the one who just threw his shoe on the door, though."

"Go away." Sherlock said coldly and started to listen to his walkman so he didn't have to bear the never-ending speech his older brother was about to give him.

He let himself fall back on the bed and grabbed his journal. He took his pencil and started to write, not without hesitation.

_I wonder if I was right to…_

He wrote the words slowly, almost carefully like he was afraid that writing them might make them become suddenly true. He frowned and ripped the page off of his journal and threw it in the bin.

**Wednesday, 5****th**** January.**

_I heard Mummy pacing in her room last night. I couldn't go to sleep after that so I'm a little unhappy._

At school, Sherlock did a splendid job ignoring the strange looks he got from his teacher every day. He really didn't like her, so that was pretty easy and he didn't care either what she thought of him.

Once or twice after the bell rang, he thought she might come to talk to him so he just quickened his pace and got off of class hurriedly.

He was crossing the school playground quickly when he heard the too familiar voices of a few of his classmates behind him. He had made a habit of just ignoring them but it became quite a hard task when they caught up with him and started to push him.

The strongest of them three pushed him aside with his shoulder, laughing as he did so. Sherlock shot him an exasperated look, rolled his eyes and went on.

"You should explain to me someday why you all seem to find this so funny. Should you learn how to form a sentence longer than three words without laughing like the idiot you are, of course."

Next thing he knew, he was falling on the floor, his schoolbag half-off his shoulder. He raised his eyes, his face still perfectly still. He was used to physical violence, it no longer affected him, it was just proof that he was better than them, in every way.

He got up, shook his head slowly in sign of disapproval and got his bag back properly on his shoulder. Sherlock only wanted to go home and be left alone, unfortunately, that wasn't what his classmates had planned.

They followed him to the door and Sherlock gladly ignored all the insults their funny little brains could come up with.

"My mum told me your dad left." The tallest kid smirked and took a few seconds to watch Sherlock suddenly stop. "It's normal with a son like you."

Of course Sherlock knew this wasn't true. Or did he? He wasn't sure of why but two seconds later he found himself pushing the other kid away with both his hands and next thing he knew they were all three on him.

Their teacher came soon after that and separated them. They all ended up in detention for a week and their parents were summoned.

_I hate them. I hate them. All of them. They can rot in hell for all I care._

_Mummy wasn't happy when she heard she had to have a talk with my teacher about me again. I tried to tell her it wasn't my fault and I hadn't been the one to start it but she wouldn't listen._

_It's not fair._

Later that night, Sherlock got down the stairs silently. He was looking for one of his books when he noticed the light in the living room was on. He got closer, the door was ajar. He leaned against the wall and started peering into the room.

"It's my fault, he shouldn't have had to take the responsibility to…"

"Mycroft," Sherlock heard his Mum cut his brother mid-sentence, "you're only sixteen. It's not your responsibility to take either. I know you want to help but you shouldn't have to."

"I want to. I should have seen. I mean, I should have known. How did I miss that?"

"Stop beating yourself up, darling. I know you want to protect Sherlock," The little boy shivered a bit at the mention of his name but kept on listening in silence, "but you can't always be here for him. Besides, you know how he is, I don't think you'll be doing him any good by trying too hard."

Mycroft sighed and Sherlock contemplated letting his presence known. In the end he didn't move.

"Perhaps he should consult a psychologist, or something." Sherlock frowned.

"Maybe… I have to say I'm a little reluctant at the idea of making him see a professional, but maybe it could get him to open up to someone about all this."

She sighed and Sherlock felt his jaw clench a little. His mother took Mycroft's hand and smiled at him. By now she was almost whispering so Sherlock had to get even closer to overhear what she said next.

"I know you want to help, but how are iyou/i feeling? About all this?"

"I'm fine." Mycroft answered in his usual controlled tone, as they all did in this family.

Sherlock jumped slightly when he heard footsteps on the hallway. He quickly got back upstairs and checked it had only been the butler. He then got back in his room and closed the door behind him.

_I hate Mycroft, who does he think he is? He should just keep his ridiculously large nose out of my business. Why does he always have to do that? I don't want to go see a psychiatrist. It'll only be a waste of time._

_I'm __**FINE**__._

_Oddly enough when Mycroft says it, Mummy believes him. This is so unfair._

**Monday 10****th****, January**.

_The session was just a waste of time, as expected. At least he said he didn't need to see me again. I think it was because I explained to him that I didn't love my father, so I didn't miss him._

_He kept asking me all these stupid questions; it was like he was talking to a five year old._

_Glad it's over._

After the incident of last week, Mycroft took the habit of coming to get Sherlock after school with the chauffeur. Needless to say Sherlock hated it.

"How long are you going to ignore me like that?"

Silence.

"How very _mature_ of you."

Sherlock tried to let out an exasperated and totally mature sound but only a groan came out. He could practically _hear_ Mycroft smile from the seat next to him.

A few minutes passed in complete silence until Mycroft spoke again. "Sherlock, I wanted to tell you that I'm s…"

The younger Holmes' brother could hear in Mycroft's tone where he was going with this and he really didn't want to talk about it. So, he interrupted him.

"What do you have to come and pick me up? I don't need a bodyguard and you're not driving the car. You're just useless."

Mycroft was too accustomed to his younger brother rudeness to be affected. "I'm concerned about you, Sherlock. I just want to make sure you don't get yourself into trouble again."

Sherlock didn't answer. They spent the rest of the journey home in silence.

Since the incident with his classmates, Sherlock had taken the habit of getting out of school pretty quickly, just to make sure they didn't have the time to catch up on him. That day, however, he didn't have the chance to leave the classroom before them, his teacher wanted to have a word about his last English test.

Apparently she was impressed. Sherlock couldn't care less to be honest.

When she finally allowed him to leave, sure enough, the three boys from last week were waiting for him just behind the school gates. Sherlock sighed at the sight of them but kept on walking.

He wasn't afraid of them.

He tried to simply walk pass them but the tallest one grabbed him by the shoulder to stop him. He took his bag and threw it on the ground. Sherlock raised his eyes, looking perfectly unaffected.

The three kids didn't do anything else though. They stopped a few seconds later, slightly afraid apparently and looking at something behind Sherlock. They ran away before the young Holmes had the chance to understand what was happening.

He turned around and saw Mycroft coming towards him, his umbrella in hand and a threatening look on his face. He was watching the kids flee with a small proud smile on his face.

Sherlock ignored him and started to walk down the street in the opposite direction, passing by the car without stopping.

"Sherlock."

He didn't listen and kept on going. Mycroft was the one to grab his arm this time, much softer of course. Sherlock fought him until his arm was free again.

"Stop it. I don't bloody _need_ you. I don't need your help; I don't want you to keep following me and trying to keep me safe or whatever it is you're trying to do."

Sherlock tried to push him away with both his hands but Mycroft was much older and bigger than he was and he remained exactly in the same spot as before.

"I just want you to leave me _alone_. Is that so hard to understand?"

He hadn't realized he was practically yelling in the street by now, but neither Mycroft nor Sherlock were paying attention to the passers-by.

"I'm just trying…"

"Well, don't. I'm fine, Mycroft. Really. I don't care that dad left, we're better off without him."

"I know that, Sherlock." Mycroft said, like it was obvious. Sherlock hated it when he did that.

"Then, why are you doing this?"

Mycroft took a few seconds to answer that. He smiled kindly down at his little brother and took a small step towards him. When he spoke, it was in a softer tone than the one he usually used with his brother and any trace of sarcasm had gone.

"It's not your fault Sherlock."

For a few seconds, Sherlock only stared right back at his brother. He felt the tension in his body disappear gradually and he put his hands in his trousers' pockets.

He bit his lower lip and nodded quietly, suddenly strictly avoiding Mycroft's gaze.

They remained silent for about a minute. They didn't have to talk. A few times Sherlock opened his mouth, but nothing ever came out. He just already knew precisely what his brother was going to say and didn't feel like he really needed to hear it.

He didn't need to hear the "_you did the right thing telling Mummy_" or the "_you don't have to feel guilty, you didn't do anything wrong_".

He just knew what Mycroft was trying to tell him and for a minute or two, he forgot to be pissed off by the fact that his older brother could decipher him so easily.

"I know that." Sherlock finally said, raising his head again and confronting his brother's intense gaze.

Mycroft smiled fondly at his younger brother. "Let's go home." Sherlock said and walked towards the car. Mycroft stopped him again and before he knew it, Sherlock was being forced into an embrace by his brother.

He tried to fight him for a few seconds and finally gave in, forcing a sigh. He let his forehead rest on Mycroft's shoulder for a moment before his brother put him down on his feet again.

"Thank you, I prefer my feet on the ground if that's not too much trouble for you." Sherlock said disdainfully before finally getting in the car.

And if, unlike every day, Sherlock didn't pick up a fight with his brother on their way home, neither of them bothered to mention it.


End file.
